


Grosse Point Sandburg

by TW Lewis (gardendoor)



Category: Grosse Point Blank (1997), The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-12
Updated: 2005-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardendoor/pseuds/TW%20Lewis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Movie crossover -- An international hit-man comes home for his ten-year reunion and finds a whole lot more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grosse Point Sandburg

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Not mine. Much gratitude to Sheila for betaing at the eleventh hour and to the Senbetas for their usual amazing work; all remaining errors are my own fault. My ts_ficathon prompt was to do an AU with touch. Also, I've played a little fast and loose with ages, but hey, it's an AU. Live a little.

This was a big mistake.

Blair should have known it was a mistake the minute he took the job; his specialty was sniper shots that felt like arcade games or up-close slice-and-dice that let the adrenaline of self-defense carry him through the kill. Poisoning a sleeping man by dripping a solution of digitalis down a wire into his mouth was way out of Blair's area of expertise. But the up-close-and-personal hits were just getting harder and harder. He was flinching at the last minute too often now, seeing something in eyes of targets who had always seemed less than human to him before. But this was the last one. Just one last job and he could retire--

The target frowned, uncomfortable, and Blair had a split second to think _oh shit_ before the man rolled over in his sleep, the cold splash of digitalis on his ear snapping him awake in seconds.

Blair cursed silently as he yanked the wire and the minicam up through the ceiling. The target leapt to his feet, dressed only in boxers, and raced for the door. Blair dashed down the stairs and shot him, only tagging the back of his knee, but it was enough to bring the target down. He stood over the gasping, bleeding man, trying to remember the file, the reason this man's partners had thought it was worth paying forty grand to rid themselves of him.

"Whatever I'm doing that you don't like," the man whispered, as though praying, as though Blair could really let him go at this point, "I'll stop. I swear."

"It's not me," Blair explained patiently, and fixed his mistake with two soft puffs from his silenced gun.

***

"Hey, Ellison? You check the mail yet?" Brown called from across the bullpen with a shit-eating grin.

"Why, H, your mom lonely again?"

Brown just shrugged that off with the smirk of a poker player holding the better hand, and pulled one of two cream-colored envelopes off the desk he shared with his partner, Rafe. "Dear Cascade High graduate--"

"H," Jim growled a warning.

Rafe's grin was as wide as his partner's. Half the bullpen had turned around in curiosity to see what was pissing Jim off.

"Where are you?" Brown continued. "Are you guiding an Outward Bound canoe trip like Brooke Stinson? Or perhaps in charge of appearances for the NFL like Leslie Gunther? Sandy Glasser owns a cheese shop!"

"H, I'm warning you, if you don't shut up right now," Jim hissed. Even Simon had poked his head out of his office by this point.

"Looking at yearbooks and pictures evokes so many memories!" Rafe started reading off his own invitation. "Some good, some bad, but all interesting."

"As a graduate of the class of 1986, you are someone special," said H, hamming it up for all he was worth as Jim tried to grab the invitations first from him and then from Rafe to no avail.

"Whenever news of you filters back, the school is excited and proud of your accomplishments! So come on back to the old oak tree, acorns. Signed, The Reunion Committee."

"Are you through?" Jim demanded, finally snatching the hated cards from his fellow detectives.

"Come on, Ellison, don't you wanna see all your old friends and teachers?" Rafe asked innocently. "I know _I'm_ curious..."

"Yeah, you could bring a date!" H cackled, stopping when Jim's hand wrapping around his throat finally gave him a clue that he was treading on very thin ice.

"You three clowns, get in my office now!" Simon bellowed.

Jim obeyed, grinding his jaw, but Rafe and Brown followed him like a couple of high school jackasses. Must be the nostalgia of reunion, Jim decided with a glower.

"Someone want to tell me what the hell you three were doing, wrestling around out there? This is a police station, not a schoolyard!"

"Sorry, Cap'n."

"Sorry, Cap."

"Sorry, Sir," Jim muttered.

"Well? Someone going to tell me what the hell you were doing out there?" Simon pressed.

Brown gulped and glanced at Jim with a renewed sense of self-preservation, but his partner decided he'd had enough of being stuck between the rock of Jim and the hard place of Simon. "We all went to high school together," Rafe explained, "And we just got our invites to the tenth reunion."

"So far I'm not hearing any reason to avoid sticking you three with the graveyard shift from now till kingdom come," said Simon.

"I came out in high school, Sir," Jim spat out, just wanting to get this over with. He flipped open his wallet and took out a weathered picture of a sweet-faced geek with an afro of dark curls. "It was a huge thing, the football captain taking a science nerd to the prom. I took a lot of crap for the gay thing, and even more for my bad taste in guys. And then the guy stood me up on prom night. Just disappeared."

Simon opened his mouth to say something, but Jim cut him off before this could become any more excruciating. "It was a long time ago, Sir, and I don't care anymore, but you can see why I've got better things to do than spend a night getting ragged on for it by people I haven't thought about for ten years."

Brown raised an eyebrow and said, "Sure, Ellison, just one thing: if you haven't thought about Sandburg in ten years, why are you still carrying his picture around in your wallet?"

***

Robert tapped hesitantly on his door. "Hey, Coz?"

Blair grimaced and waved him in.

"They're really unhappy."

"I'm really unhappy," Blair said, the back of his neck heating in embarrassment.

"It was supposed to look like a heart attack! He was supposed to die in his sleep!"

"Well, he moved," Blair shrugged, trying to pretend that was the way of life, but let's face it, there's a big frigging difference between having your business partner die of a heart attack and having him shot to death. Things like an investigation. Questions of motive. All the stuff that would bring to light everything his clients had hoped to sweep under the carpet. Bad for them, and really bad for Blair. He sighed heavily. "How can I make it up to them?"

Robert tossed the sealed file onto his desk and leaned in conspiratorially. "A canary decided to sing to the Feds. Deposition's scheduled for Monday morning, something about dangerous cutbacks on building materials. They want him deleted."

"Robert, I know you're family, man, but if you don't stop sounding like a dime store detective novel I swear I'm gonna shoot you on general principle," Blair grumbled irritably.

"And you're never going to believe where," Robert went on, completely ignoring him. Robert knew Blair wasn't up to acts of bodily harm before he got some coffee in his system. "Our old stomping grounds, Coz. And just in time for your reunion!"

"Look, Bogey, I really need you to shut up about that."

"It's out of my hands, Coz. The gods want you to go back home and they want you to delete someone while you're there."

"No way in hell am I setting foot back in Cascade. There's got to be something else they want. I've got my foot out the door here, Robert, I'm retiring to Indonesia, not taking a nightmare trip down memory lane."

"Well, they mentioned one other possibility that would help cement their interests..." Robert smirked, and Blair just knew he was going to hate this.

"It's a Greenpeace boat. It'd be so easy."

"Are you kidding? Naomi would kill me. I'd kill me. Shit." He eyed the dossier with loathing. "Better pack my raincoat. And call Charlie, tell him I'm coming."

***

"I just don't think I should go, I mean, what do I have in common with those people anymore, anyway?" Blair asked, lying back on the couch. "They all have husbands and wives and children and houses and dogs, you know? What am I gonna say? 'I tried to slip Castro a poisoned cigar. How've you been?'"

"Blair," Charlie began hesitantly, "You do understand I'm not a psychiatrist, don't you?"

"Come on, Charlie, why do you think I come here? I've been seeing shrinks since I was in pampers, I can run rings around shrinks. But come on, you're a psychic, you've gotta be seeing something about this weekend. I mean, should I go, shouldn't I go?"

"It doesn't work that way, Blair," said Charlie. "My abilities aren't like cable TV; you can't just switch to the channel you want. You want advice, though, let me just put this out there as a possibility, maybe your inability to find common ground with ordinary people is a sign that you should stop killing them. J-just a suggestion," he hurried to add.

"Come on," said Blair. "I show up at your door, you probably did something pretty nasty to bring me there. People don't spend five figures to whack an innocent man. I mean you should read the files of some of these fuckers! They read like a demon's resume! People screw up their karma that badly, the universe does what it has to and cleans up its mistakes. I'm just a part of that process, man. I'm ridding the world of rapists, crooked politicians, dictators, terrorists -- come on, it's not like my life doesn't have meaning or anything!"

"You feel like your life doesn't have meaning?" Charlie pressed.

"Now you're trying to be a shrink, Charlie. Aren't you supposed to have a vision, or interpret my dreams or something?"

"You want to talk about dreams, we can talk about dreams. Are you still having the dream about the wolf and the panther?"

Blair shook his head. "Last night I dreamed about Jim again."

"The football player you're obsessed with?"

"I'm not obsessed, man!"

"What, dreaming about your high school sweetheart for ten years? I'd call that obsessed."

"I just... I keep feeling like my life took a wrong turn somewhere, you know? Don't say it, Charlie; I know where you live," he teased, disappointed when Charlie paled. You'd think a psychic would know when he was joking. "It's just, any night I don't dream about the wolf and the panther, I dream I'm lying in bed next to Jim, you know, just... comfortable. Like we could have built a life together. But we both know that's impossible."

Charlie winced. "I wouldn't be so quick to judge that. Why don't you go back for this reunion, see things in a different light? Go see this Jim guy, talk about old times. Don't kill anybody for a few days. See what it feels like."

Blair sighed and got up. "Alright, I'll give it a shot."

"No, don't give it a shot! Don't shoot anything!"

Blair rolled his eyes. "Everyone's a comedian."

***

Blair only intended to drive by the high school, familiarize himself with the territory again before the crowded reunion, but when he saw the familar figure he had to stop the car and say hello.

"Mrs. McCusker?" Blair asked, approaching the ancient science teacher with her long gray hair caught up with the same butterfly filigree combs he remembered from a decade before.

"Blair? Good Lord, Blair Sandburg!" She threw her arms around him. "Where have you been the last ten years? We thought Harvard, Princeton... you surprised us all in the teacher's pool by disappearing into thin air."

"Oh, you know me, I started stealing plutonium for time machines for my zany science professor, thought I'd drop by fifth century China and pick up that seismograph you were always raving about, but those palace guards, you know, funny thing, but they seem to have a problem with people stealing the emperor's thingamabobs."

Mrs. McCusker rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. "Well, at least you haven't lost your skill for lying your way out of trouble."

"Obfuscating, obfuscating," Blair protested.

"So where are you headed now?" she asked, still shaking her head in amusement.

"Home."

She gave him an odd look, her smile fading. "Are you."

The bell rang, and she pulled away. "They're playing my song. I'll see you around?"

"Sure," he said, waving goodbye.

 _That was weird,_ he thought as he drove back to the house where Naomi had dumped him for most of high school. The neighborhood was exactly the same, though, and he drove past the Lynch house, the Altmans, the Firestones, and then paused, confused. Had he gone too far? No, this was the right street, right between the Firestones and the Prestons, but...

What. The. Fuck?

He got out of the car, just leaving the door swinging open, and slowly approached the thing his brain refused to accept, right there where the house had been.

A 7-11.

He opened the door, half expecting it to look like normal inside, like Mary would be watching her soaps over there where the potato chips hung on a rack, and Cliff would be coming home from work any minute, bellowing that he was home from the wars, and where was his dinner? Blair turned to the clerk, feeling more than a little shell-shocked.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm doing a double shift. What's it look like?" the pimple-faced kid asked.

"How long have you worked here?"

"A couple months, why?"

"You have a manager? How long have they worked here?"

"I'm not telling you that," the kid said, looking defensive.

"Where do you live? I used to... what are you doing here?" Blair demanded.

"I work here!"

"All right, what's done is done. Let's forget about the whole thing."

"Freaking psycho!" the kid muttered under his breath, but Blair ignored him, wandering the stacks with a growing sense of shock and bewilderment. He fumbled for his cell phone.

"Charlie? Charlie, pick up if you're there... It's me, Blair. It's gone. My house. It's not here. My house is gone and now there's a 7-11 here... You can never go home again, Charlie. But I guess you can shop there."

***

Lee Bracket slumped in the passenger seat and watched Blair Sandburg wandering out of the 7-11 looking shell-shocked. "You got any ideas how you wanna wax this guy?"

"Can't you just say 'kill'?" Kelso demanded. "Why do you always have to romanticize it? It's a job. It's a serious job."

"You know, I think I met him back in '89 in Paraguay."

Kelso rolled his eyes. "Why do you always do that? You don't know him. You know how I know that? Because I read the file. He was never _in_ Paraguay."

Brackett smirked, glad of the chance to tease his partner and ease the boredom a little. "You know what? It wasn't Paraguay, it was Lima. That's right. Saw him, he didn't see me, though."

"Tell you what, why don't I take the weekend off and _you_ kill him, since you two are so close?" Kelso snarled. "I don't know why I put up with you, Brackett; you're everything I hate about the Agency."

***

Blair snapped out of his haze at the sight of a familiar face coming towards him, a face that teased the back of his brain but wouldn't give him a name to go with it. The man glowered at him as they passed each other, each careful not to let the other drift into their blind spots as they crossed paths. It was then that he noticed the two government spooks in the Cadillac across the street. And just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, a second caddy, one with a little more style, suddenly flashed police lights and gave a quick burst of its siren before cutting off his path.

 _Shit!_ he thought, reaching for his gun, but the plainclothes detectives who burst out looked oddly familiar.

"Hey, Hairboy! Don't leave me hanging, bro!"

"H?" Blair asked, trying to figure out why the jock who'd beaten the crap out of him more than once was high-fiving him and crushing him in a hug.

Then he looked past the black detective's shoulder and an even more unlikely face greeted him. "Rafe? Bri, what happened to you!? You lost the braces! And the glasses! And what the hell are you wearing, man; you look like you raided Calvin Klein's wardrobe!"

"I grew up, man. Got a sense of style. What about you? I was afraid you'd join a cult or something. I thought you'd come back to town in a flower wreath and orange robes."

"What, and make all Naomi's dreams come true? What kind of son would I be if I didn't give her a moment's worry to earn her Jewish mother credentials with?" He eyed them, still trying to wrap his brain around the idea that his best friend from the math club and one of Jim's football henchmen were really partners and apparently good friends. "So, wow, you guys are detectives? How did that happen?"

"Long story," said H. "Basically we both got home from college with no plans, saw a recruitment poster, and hooked up at the academy to help each other through the exams. Worked so well, why mess with a good thing, you know what I'm saying? Hey, why don't you come ride along with us, Hairboy? We'll catch up on old times, grab some dinner after our shift?"

"Sounds great!" said Blair, proud that he only had a moment's qualm about getting in the back of a police car, even an unmarked one.

"Sooo, how's the family?" he asked as they pulled away from the curb. "Did your sister ever marry that guy, what's his name, the drummer?"

"Who, Kenny?" Rafe asked. "God, I haven't thought about Kenny in--" He slammed on the brakes and whipped around, glaring accusingly. "Ten years, man! Ten! Ten years!"

Blair flattened himself against the backseat, made an abortive grab for the child-locked doors, and blurted out the truth -- no one ever believed it, and it was easier to remember anyway: "I freaked out, joined the Army, and then I went into business for myself. I'm a professional killer."

The two cops looked at each other, looked at Blair, and laughed. "Wow, professional killer," said Henri. "You have to join a union for that?"

"It's an open market."

"Oh, open market. That's good." Then he joined his partner and yelled, "Ten years, Hairboy! Ten!"

"I freaked out!" Blair repeated. "I joined the army, I worked for the government, I'm a professional killer!"

"Huh. Can I be one, too?" Rafe teased.

"Yes! Now will you two shut up about it?"

The three of them stared at each other for a moment and then dissolved into laughter. Blair wondered briefly if an assassin joking about work with two cops was one of the signs of the apocalypse.

They pulled up at the police station, and Rafe and Brown got out and opened the back door. "Come on, Blair, we wanna show you where we work."

Blair had a sudden instinct to run; there was something about their smiles that made him suspect a trap, but he reminded himself that he hadn't done anything in Washington State _ever_ , didn't even have his target file or his equipment on him. There was such a thing as being too paranoid.

"Sure," he said with forced cheerfulness. He followed them up in the elevator and out into the bullpen.

And froze.

The hair was different, the shoulders were broader, but there was no mistaking Jim Ellison. And Blair watched with the horror of an oncoming train wreck as Jim cocked his head, seeming to hear something out of place, then spun to face the elevators, eyes wide with shock and growing anger. He stalked towards them with the dangerous grace of a jungle cat, and Blair could only gulp and watch his approach.

"Hey, Ellison, look who we found!" Brown called. "Hair grew out, but he's still the same old--"

"You're not dead," Jim growled at Blair, like that was a mistake that needed immediate correction.

"I, ah, no, I'm not," said Blair, eyes trying to dart away from that piercing stare, but this close up, there was nowhere for his gaze to land but acres of pecs, gorgeous arms, beautiful washboard stomach, and back to those devastating eyes. "You look good! I mean, uh, how long has it been?"

"Since you stood me up on prom night and vanished without a word?"

Blair gulped. "Yeah, I..."

"Picture this, Sandburg. Spring of '86. Two lovers with frightening natural chemistry. A young man sits in a seven hundred dollar rented tuxedo, having burned all his bridges, with his father standing over him screaming that he's going to find himself in a shrink's office getting reprogrammed to straight the next day if he ever wants to be a part of this family, like that's a big inducement. But it's all right, because the young man is waiting for the most romantic night of his nineteen-year-old life. Except his date never shows up. So what's the question?"

Blair squirmed. "Where have I been?" he guessed.

"More like what happened, Sandburg?"

Blair wanted to die. He wanted to sink through the floor. He wanted to be having this discussion anywhere but here in front of Rafe and Brown and half of Cascade's finest. "I don't know, I mean, I could give you reasons, but they'd just sound like excuses, you know?" _Please don't make me say it. Please don't make me say it here._

The muscle in Jim's jaw jumped. "So, tell me about yourself, Sandburg."

"I'm a professional killer."

"Professional killer." Jim repeated, taking in Blair's grunge appearance, the short and unassuming stature that wasn't much more filled out than when Blair ran the math club and the debate team. "Right. You get dental with that?"

The elevator opened behind him, spilling more cops out into the bullpen, and Blair made his escape. "Well, I gotta go, but it's been great catching up. I'll be back later?"

"What are the odds?" Jim challenged.

Blair winced at that and threw his arm in the way of the closing doors. He handed Jim a card with his cell number. "Look, I'm staying at the Armitage, room 609."

Jim crumpled the card without looking at it and let it drop to the floor.

"Right," Blair said, and the elevator doors closed. "I knew this was a bad idea. I should have trusted my instincts."

***

Jim snarled as he heard Blair chewing himself out in the elevator, something he shouldn't have been able to hear. Something he hadn't been able to hear since high school.

He managed to forget, most of the time, just how good it had been, how everything now was as washed out as a tinted photograph compared to the vivid colors and tastes and smells when Sandburg had taught him to meditate, given him some control over the things that assaulted his senses. He'd forgotten what it felt like to hear that familiar heartbeat and know that he was the one who made it beat faster. He'd thought he knew Blair Sandburg inside and out, and then Blair had betrayed him, humiliated him.

He rounded on Rafe and Brown, who were standing there wide-eyed and pale. Guess their joke had fallen flat. "You two think this is funny? Why couldn't you leave well enough alone?"

"Sorry, man," said Brown quietly.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Jim demanded.

"I just... me and the guys ragged on him a lot back then, ragged on both of you. I figured that was why he left. I guess I just hoped if I got you two talking again, it would make up for that."

"Yeah. Great job," Jim snarled.

***

Even if he hadn't lost his taste for killing, Blair had always hated killing whistleblowers. It felt like a betrayal of his mother's principles to kill someone who risked their job, their family, even their life to stand up for what was right against the crooked corporations and politicians. So, in no particular rush to do the job, and with nowhere else to go, Blair ended up wandering back through his old neighborhood, back to the 7-11 that had swallowed his old house. Here was where the kitchen was, right where the arcade machine now stood. And over there was his bedroom, by the soda coolers. He'd come here to exorcise the past; the mini-mart took that power out of his hands. So many horrible memories...

He looked up automatically as the bell over the door dinged, and immediately jerked down as the man he'd noticed earlier in the street yelled, "Take this, Mr. Natural!" and opened fire with two automatic weapons.

Shit! And the clerk was caught behind the cash register, no way to get out of the line of fire; Blair had to aim carefully with his Glock as he returned fire. He dashed up the potato chip aisle, trying not to slip as potato chips from blasted bags sprayed out to cover the floor. He jumped up for a second to shoot back, missed all four shots, and ended up pinned behind the Slurpee machine. He paused to aim and his attacker's next round of bullets riddled the Slurpee machine with holes, sending nasty, ice cold sludge down Blair's back. He howled and stood up, shooting too damned close for his would-be killer's comfort, apparently, because the man then ducked out of the store and tore out of the parking lot in a Lincoln town car.

Blair breathed a sigh of relief, then went to check on the store clerk, but as he passed the microwave, something odd caught his eye. "Damn, that potato looks just like a wad of... C-4!" He dashed over to the clerk and hauled him over the counter, running as fast as he could out of the store, but when the blast came it picked them up and hurled them into the grass along with a stinging, fiery mess of shrapnel as the 7-11 blew sky high.

Blair slapped away the stray flames on his clothing and the cashier's, and stared at the burning wasteland that had been his home. Man, this was straight out of some childhood fantasies of his... Belatedly, he turned to the clerk. "Are you all right?"

"No, I'm not all right! I'm hurt, I'm pissed... Gotta find a new job!" He stumbled off, and Blair pondered the merits of going after him to make sure the kid wasn't too badly in shock, but then decided against it. He'd had enough people yelling and shooting at him today, he was going to go crash at the hotel.

***

Brackett drummed his fingers on the dashboard and eyed the hotel window. "God, I hate stakeouts. Man, why don't we just do his job so we can do our job and get the fuck out of here?"

"'Do his job?'" Kelso echoed, disbelieving. "What am I, a cold-blooded killer? I'm not a cold-blooded killer."

"Now, wait a minute, I know you've used that sidearm of yours more than once," Brackett said.

"No, you wait a minute. It's one thing to kill an assassin who we can clearly prove was about to shoot a Federal witness. You're talking about killing the witness, blowing away an innocent man, just so we can go after the man who hasn't actually committed the damn crime and catch an early flight home? Is that what you're saying?" Kelso stared at his partner, his annoyance turning into deeper anger.

"Come on, Kelso, it's not like the witness is so innocent. He got his hands pretty dirty with kickback money in order to learn that information he's going to be spilling in front of the judge Monday morning. And it's not like our boy's hands are so clean either. You know this isn't his first hit, not by a long shot. I'm just saying, why do we have to play by the rules?"

Kelso didn't bother answering that. Six years ago, Blair Sandburg had been one of them, killing dictators and madmen, doing the grotesque things that let ordinary Americans sleep at night. The government had trained Sandburg, told him to kill, until that was all he knew, then pink-slipped him and a hundred others when the Cold War ended. Left him with no purpose, no help easing back into civilian life, no path back to being a normal human being again. Kelso didn't pity the man who made a comfortable living killing for money, but he couldn't help feeling somewhat responsible, as part of the system that had created Sandburg and set him adrift.

He sat up and frowned as a truck with police plates pulled up in front of the hotel. A plainclothes detective, well-built and clearly pissed off, got out and strode purposefully towards the hotel. "What's he doing here?" Kelso mused, flipping through the file.

***

Blair sat by the phone, rubbing the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache. "Robert, I'm saying it's crowded in town; I've made two spooks and a ghoul already. So if you could find out why they double-booked the job, and who is trying to kill me, that'd be great."

"I'm checking as fast as I can -- word is the ghoul is the head of a group called the Sunrise Patriots, name's Kincaid."

Blair sat up in a panic as the name finally clicked in his memory. "That's where I know him from. Oh shit."

"What, what is it?"

"Bastard tried to recruit me right after the government dropped me. I was in pretty bad shape at the time, no wonder I didn't place him."

"So he tried to recruit you, so what?"

"Yeah, but I turned him down by castrating the grabby-handed S.O.B. I don't think he's here to reminisce about old times, man."

"Shit," said Robert. They both paused for a moment, just trying to think of a way out, but finally Robert just sighed and gave him the rest of the bad news. "It looks like the Feds are part of some 'get tough on crime' initiative, looking for a big case for some good ink in the papers. They chose you, but I guess they weren't fast enough, right? You did the job and now you're on the next flight back, right?"

Blair winced. "It isn't done."

Robert paused, silence crackling across the line. "This isn't good."

"I'll do it tomorrow."

"What's it look like?"

"It's fine."

"Christ, Blair, have you even looked at the file yet?"

Blair eyed the heating vent where he'd stowed the file and his gear. "I'm looking at it right now. It's fine. Nothing remarkable about it at all."

"So what do you want me to tell them? Deposition's Monday morning; they're getting antsy."

"Tell them I'm taking my time. Being a professional."

Robert sighed heavily. "I'm really beginning to worry about your safety, Coz."

"Look, I've got to go," said Blair.

"Yeah, we all got to go sometime, Coz, but we can choose when."

"No one chooses when," Blair said with a grimace as he hung up the phone.

He was about to roll over and make an early night of it when there was a knock at the door. He tucked his Glock into the back of his pants, just in case, and answered the door. To his shock, it was Jim. "Jim, man, it's great to see you! I mean, I'm a little surprised, but--"

"What were you doing at four-thirty this afternoon, Sandburg?" Jim demanded, all business.

"Four-thirty?" Blair asked, trying to think back. It had been a hell of a day. "Oh. I think I was watching my house get blown up."

"Did you do it?" Jim asked.

"No! I mean, not that I haven't had fantasies, but no, seeing it torn down in the name of convenience seemed like vengeance enough."

"Witness saw you there. Said there was a man with automatic weapons who seemed to know you."

Blair decided to stick with the truth; Jim always could tell if he was lying, anyway. "Yeah, he's part of a militant militia who tried to recruit me. Needs to work on his people skills a little."

Jim's eyes narrowed. "You've gotten good at lying. Or maybe you were just always this good."

"Did this witness -- I'm assuming it's the clerk, right? -- did he happen to mention I saved his freaking life when the store blew up, man?"

Jim softened a little. "Yeah, he did say that. Are you okay, Chief? You're not in trouble, are you? I mean, you can joke about being an assassin, but we both know you could never fight your way out of a paper bag." Blair winced at that, but didn't correct him. "You haven't pissed off someone you shouldn't, have you?"

Blair looked up into the eyes of the man he'd fallen completely in love with back in school, the man who, despite everything, was actually worried about him, and managed to say, "Yeah, I did. But I'm hoping he'll forgive me."

Jim rolled his eyes at the corny attempt to win him over, but didn't pull away. "What happened to you, Chief? What the hell happened?"

 _You only get one chance at this. Don't screw it up,_ Blair warned himself. He swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat, looked down at the floor, and said, "When you, when you told everyone, I was completely blown away. No one had ever put their neck out for me like that, and there you were, telling the whole school you loved me. I can't even tell you what I was feeling at that moment, man." He felt a warm hand rest on his shoulder, and forced himself to continue. "But everyone around school was talking about prom night, how they were going to do it, how it was going to be their first time. And it wasn't."

"Wasn't what, Blair?"

"Wasn't my first time," he whispered.

"Oh come on, Sandburg, you were what, fifteen? Sixteen when we got together? Who the hell would have slept with someone younger than that?"

Blair couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He forced himself to say the words, to admit, even obliquely, what he'd never dared tell anyone. "Do you remember Cliff?"

Jim jerked away as though scalded. "Son of a bitch," he said, and Blair flinched. "Your foster father? The guy Naomi dumped you with?"

"I didn't want to think of him and you in the same sentence, and I knew, if I showed up that night, that either you'd do that to me or I'd have to tell you just how screwed up I was and why I was always trying to meditate to keep things under control inside."

"Shit. That's just. Shit." Jim ran his hands through what was left of his hair and rounded on Blair. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Blair sighed. "I didn't have anywhere to go, man, I was afraid I'd end up somewhere even worse. And somehow, if I didn't say it, it felt like it wasn't real. I didn't want it to be real. I just wanted to pretend I was what you thought I was. I'm sorry."

Jim sat down on the bed, and Blair winced at the helpless anger in Jim's eyes, the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to fix this. But when he looked up, there was none of the disgust Blair had feared to see in his eyes. Only a fierce love that Blair had to duck away from.

"So," he said, toeing the carpet, "I was hoping maybe I could see you some while I was in town, try and clear the air a little between us. Maybe go to the reunion together?"

"You're asking me out, Chief?" Jim chuckled in disbelief.

"Trying," said Blair. "Any hope?"

Jim studied him for a long moment. "852 Prospect. Pick me up at seven."

"I'll be there. I'll even be on time."

Jim smiled tolerantly. "Showing up would be a big start."

***

The elevator was out, so Blair walked up the stairs, clutching the bouquet of flowers nervously, and trying to think of what the hell to say to a room full of 200 familiar strangers. "Hi. I'm, uh, I'm a pet psychiatrist. I sell couch insurance. Mm-hmm, and I -- and I test-market positive thinking. I lead a weekend men's group, we specialize in ritual killings. Yeah, you look great! God, yeah! Hi, how are you? Hi, I'm Blair Sandburg, remember me? I'm not married, I don't have any kids, and I'd blow your head off if someone paid me enough."

He took a moment at the front door to compose himself, but Jim opened the door before he could knock. Jim eyed the bouquet. "Flowers. That's cute."

"I can do cute," said Blair. "How was your day?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," said Jim. "Trying to find out why the head of a militia decided to shoot up a random convenience store and blow it to kingdom come."

"Any luck?" Blair asked, handing over the bouquet.

"Surprisingly not. I'll just go put these in some rubbing alcohol," said Jim with his usual irony, moving aside so Blair could come in. "You wanna catch up with my brother while I get my jacket? He's staying over for the weekend, got some business in town."

"Uh, sure," said Blair. He would never have thought Jim would voluntarily hang out with his brother; they'd hated each other with a vengeance in high school, but sure enough, there was Steven flopped down on the couch watching ESPN. "Sandburg."

"Hey, Steven. What's up? How're you doing these days?"

Steven eyed Blair up and down, and Blair hoped he looked somewhat respectable in his cream-colored linen suit. "Look, Sandburg, I don't know where you've been since you dumped my brother on prom night, and I don't care. Coming out was the best thing he ever did; freed him up to be his own man, buck Dad's expectations. And hey, it means that I can do no wrong, since I'm the only chance the old man has for grandkids." He shook his head, eying Blair more closely. "I somehow pictured you going to San Francisco or New York, one of those artsy granola types living in a shoebox apartment and changing the world one meaningless gallery opening at a time."

"Nah, I went the other road. Six figures, doing business with leadpipe cruelty, mercenary sensibility. You know, sport sex, no real relationships. How about you?"

"Well, you know me, Sandburg -- still the same brown-noser, jumping through daddy's hoops, exploiting the oppressed..."

"Sure."

"Ah, screw it; let's have a drink and forget the whole damn thing. So, what _have_ you been doing with your life?" he asked, moving to where Jim kept the booze.

"Uh... professional killer."

"Mm?" Steven asked, more interested in choosing a good scotch. "Good for you, it's a ... growth industry."

Blair shook his head at that and turned as Jim came down the stairs. Man, but he cleaned up good. Blair tried to keep his jaw off the floor at how edible Jim looked in a chest-hugging, iridescent green shirt and black suit. And he knew it, too, the prick, grinning smugly at Blair. "Let's get out of here. Don't wait up, Steven."

When they got to the school, the two of them just looked at each other, squared their shoulders, and went in. A vaguely familiar face beamed at them from the check-in table, greeting them with an overly cheery, "Welcome back, Jimmy! It's Arlene Oslott-Joseph." She handed him a name card, then looked at Blair, perplexed.

"Blair Sandburg," he offered, not really offended. He'd never hung out with her crowd. "So, you got married?"

"Three kids!" she said with more forced cheer. He suddenly wondered what made someone want to go to a reunion this badly and then strand herself at a desk so she wouldn't have to talk to anyone for more than thirty seconds. Suddenly, he felt a little less screwed up, at least by comparison.

She handed him his name card and pointed out, "I had the yearbook pictures put on so everybody knows who everybody was!"

Blair looked down at the picture of his former geeky self. Well, he'd been trained to withstand torture... "Wow, ah, thanks for that, Arlene, I'm sure that'll go over well."

"So, what are you doing now?" Arlene asked, trying to make small talk.

"Whatever I can get away with," he replied, moving out of the way so the newest victims could get their name cards.

They migrated down the halls to the gym, where a DJ was pounding out all the eighties hits he'd been too much of a bookworm to actually listen to back when they were the cutting edge of cool. Being a prodigy had had its disadvantages.

A guy he didn't recognize gravitated towards him like they knew each other. Even the photo was barely familiar; they'd only had one class together, but the guy put an arm over his shoulder and leaned over conspiratorially to say, "I don't know, Blair, all these people are driving me crazy. And the people in the honors society? The name tags? They have special blue stars on them like it matters now that they were in the honor club ten years ago. I'm getting nauseous from all this sentimental bullshit. It's making me sick."

Blair blinked, looking to Jim for rescue, but finally just asked, with a glance at the nametag just to be on the safe side, "So, ah, why are you here then, Terry?"

"I just wanted to see a couple people. What did we have together, Blair? History?"

"Geography."

"Yeah, I couldn't stand that fucking class. But I appreciate you helping me out, man."

"Don't mention it. So, what are you doing with yourself now?"

"Paramedic, out in Skokie, Illinois," said Terry, and Blair blinked at the thought of this twitchy guy being first on the scene in a crisis. Wow. "Look, I'm gonna try and get out of here, man. I'll see you later."

"Yeah, see you," said Blair, feeling more than a little shell-shocked. He grinned at Jim. "Wow."

"You said it, Chief," Jim agreed, and for a moment it felt just like old times.

Rafe and Brown came up to them, and there were cheers and back-slaps all around. It was still more than a little weird to think of Rafe and Brown working together so closely; it was scary how little the high school food chain meant once you left it.

And that was when Amy, one of the former little cheerleader bunnies, made a drunken wobble in their direction. "Hey!" she said. "It's Jim an', an' Barry! God, it's good to see you two. Where've you been, Barry? What are you doing now?"

"Yeah, where've you been, Barry?" Rafe teased.

"Retiring, actually," said Blair. "Just have to close this one last account."

"But what do you doooo?" she asked.

"I work at Kentucky Fried Chicken," said Blair.

Henri burst out laughing and couldn't stop; only Rafe and Jim together could keep him from sliding to the floor.

"You do not!" Amy accused.

"I do! I sell biscuits and gravy all over the Southland."

"You're so funny," she said.

"He's a funny guy," Jim agreed.

Amy leaned in conspiratorially. "Tha's okay, Barry. I've been telling everyone I'm an art teacher, but acshully I'm a stripper now."

"Really!" Blair asked, surprised. "Do you like it?"

She paused to ponder this, as though no one had asked her before, and then a slow smile spread across her face. "I do," she said.

"Well, great! All right, then!"

"Thanks," she said, and threw up on his shoes.

"Ugh!" Blair yelled, and hurried out of the room to clean himself off, Jim rushing ahead to drag him upstairs to the bathroom. As they passed the welcome desk, Blair heard a familiar voice say, "Honey, don't you recognize me? It's Sidney Feldman."

"My, you have changed!" said Arlene to whoever it was. "Save me a dance later, okay?"

Jim pulled Blair into the bathroom and handed him a mountain of paper towels to clean up with, along with a set of hand-wipes scrounged from Jim's pockets. He blushed a little. "I never leave home without them."

"Hey, don't apologize, man, I'm grateful," Blair said, using them to scrub off the last traces of vomit so the smell wouldn't upset Jim. "I'm the one who told you to carry them for emergencies in the first place, remember?"

"Yeah," said Jim, leading him out of the bathroom again. "You were always looking out for me." The long hallway was segmented by double doors at various points. Blair tried the door, but it was locked. Nostalgic alumni were not a high priority for the janitors, apparently. Jim took advantage of the closed door, however, to lean in and kiss Blair, breathing in his scent with a hunger that made the hairs on the back of Blair's neck rise up.

Jim broke away after a second with a worried look. "Is this okay?" he asked.

Blair nodded. "I'll tell you if it's not," he said, and barely had time to grab a breath before Jim was back, kissing him and running possessive hands up and down Blair's chest and back and cock, trying to fill his senses. Blair groaned and kissed Jim back, arching up to rub his body eagerly against Jim's. The feeling of Jim's cock grinding against his own made his chest tighten with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. He broke away and groaned, "Wait, wait, this is crazy."

Jim pulled back, looking hurt, but Blair hastened to say, "All I mean is, I've got a great bed back at my hotel, so what are we doing here?"

Jim grinned and said, "I'll say our goodbyes."

"I'm going to go down the stairs, up and around, check out my old locker over there," said Blair, pointing to the stairs on the other side of the locked door. "Meet you back here?"

"See you in ten," Jim agreed.

***

Jim stood there a moment as Blair dashed down the stairs with the same energy he'd had as a teenager. He was so happy it almost hurt. All these years, he'd been furious at Sandburg, mistrusting everyone because of the pain of that betrayal, and now it had turned out that all that was based on a complete misunderstanding. It felt like, if they could just get through tonight, they'd find that deep core of love and partnership was still there, even stronger now that they were both adults and knew what they were doing.

He saw a flash of cream-colored linen through the window in the door, and turned to take a silent moment to watch Blair struggle to recall his old locker combination and open the battered metal door with a wistful smile that made Jim want to kiss him. He reached into the locker and pulled out a joint, and the cop in Jim frowned until Blair laughed and crushed the joint in his fingers, spilling little twigs of marijuana to the floor. Jim smiled in private approval, then looked up sharply as he saw someone approach Blair. Bob Destephano, the wide receiver who'd given the two of them nothing but grief when Jim had come out. Shit. Jim debated running down the stairs and around, but could he even get there in time to stop something from happening?

"So," Bob challenged Blair, words slurred from too many celebratory drinks. "You and Jim. Gonna hit that shit again?"

"Fine, Bob. How are you?" Blair retorted, slamming the locker shut.

"Smart, boy. Real smart. C'mon. Let's see how smart you are with my foot up your ass!"

Jim lunged for the stairs, desperate to protect his lover, but Blair's next words brought him up short.

"Do you _really_ believe that there's some stored up conflict that exists between us?" Blair asked the former jock. "There _is_ no us. _We_ don't exist. So who do you wanna hit, man? It's not me. Now what do you wanna do here, man?"

Bob's face crumpled. "I just thought that you'd know how, you know? That you'd teach me, 'cause you were queer too."

 _Over my dead body!_ Jim thought, but Blair was way ahead of him.

"Hey, man, it's okay, all right? Nothing to get upset or ashamed about. Just be patient with yourself, dip your toes in the water a little, you'll be fine. God gave you a body, just go enjoy it and don't hurt anyone, okay?"

Bob nodded, wiping away drunken tears and lunging in for a hug. "You want me to blow you?" he asked hopefully.

"No I don't," said Blair. "Go on. Good luck."

Jim watched Bob lurch off, feeling obscurely pleased. Blair knew how to take care of himself and, underneath all those smart-mouthed retorts, he was still the same caring guy who had put himself out to help Jim when the teenaged jock had thought he was losing his mind. He was about to tap on the glass and signal Blair that he was still there when he saw someone else coming up the stairs to cut off Blair's exit.

Someone with a gun.

Jim started slamming his weight against the door, trying to break it down, watching helplessly as Blair knocked the gun away and went for a head-butt, limbs moving with the sinuous grace of deadly martial arts, dodging punches and kicking his attacker in the ribs before getting knocked to the floor. He was smaller, unarmed, he wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer and -- dammit! Why wouldn't this door break down!

And then Blair's desperate fingers grabbed a pen from his attacker's suit jacket, flipped the cap off, and plunged it into the man's jugular. Jim stared, horrified, as Blair tore out the artery, spraying himself with blood, ignoring the ineffectual slaps and clawing fingernails of his dying attacker. Then Blair slumped to the floor, exhausted, covered in blood, and looked up.

At Jim.

***

Jim disappeared from view, and Blair cursed himself and his whole, screwed-up life. God, was this punishment? Had someone decided to give him an early start on paying off his karma from all the jobs he'd pulled? Seeing the horror on Jim's face, the unforgiving coldness... There was no getting around it; Blair had finally, totally lost the one person who'd ever loved him.

Then he felt a presence at his back and looked up to find Jim standing behind him, still angry, still cold, but there. "We have to clean this up," Jim snarled. "If Rafe and Brown see this, I'll have no choice... Damn you, Sandburg!"

Blair shook his head to get rid of the cobwebs and leapt to his feet. "It's okay. I know what I'm doing," he said. "Grab that banner."

Jim pulled down a banner that read, "Believe -- Achieve!" and helped Blair roll the body up. Blair sacrificed his already bloody jacket to clean up the mess from the floor. Thankfully, school floors were fairly stain-resistant. Blair grabbed one end of the ridiculous bundle and said, "Get his legs! Come on!"

Blair led the way down to the furnace room, the obscene weight swinging wildly between them as they hoofed it down the stairs. Blair used the jacket to open the scorching doors of the furnace so they could dump the final remains of Garrett Kincaid, the sides of the furnace blistering Blair's fingers as he dumped in the soiled jacket and slammed the doors shut.

"Thanks," he panted. "Don't worry, no one's gonna come looking for this guy."

Jim just stared at him, silent and cold. The moment stretched excruciatingly. "He was trying to kill you, right?"

"Yes," said Blair. There didn't seem any point to putting a good face on things any more, obfuscating was out of the question.

"Not the other way round?" Jim pressed.

"No, this was _not_ my intention," Blair said.

Jim absorbed this for a moment. "Is this something you've done?"

Blair opened his mouth. Shut it. Finally said, "It's something I do. Professionally. About five years now."

"That's insane," Jim growled. "People joke about the horrible things they don't do, but they don't actually do them. It's absurd!"

"When I left," Blair tried to explain, "I joined the Army and took the service exam. They found my psych results fit a certain... 'moral flexibility' would be the best way to describe it... I was loaned out to a CIA-sponsored program. Something just sort of clicked for me..."

"You're a government spook?" Jim said, as though even that idea was obscene.

"I was, but no... yes... I was before, but now I'm not. But that's -- it's irrelevant, really. The idea of governments, nations, it's mostly a public relations theory at this point, anyway."

"Stop! I don't want to hear about the theories, Sandburg, I want to hear about the dead people. Explain the dead people."

"Well, I mean, it helps to have some specific ideology to hang on to, I mean, mine was 'punish the guilty,' some people like 'live free or die,' but that's all bullshit, man, I see that now. You do it because you're trained to do it, you're paid to do it and, ultimately, because you like it. I know that sounds bad--"

"You're a psychopath." Jim was completely closed off now.

"No, no. Psychopaths kill for no reason. I kill for _money_. It's a _job_. That didn't come out right. If I show up at your door, you probably did something to deserve it. I mean, everybody does it. Sometimes the state sends people to the electric chair, sometimes pilots carpet-bomb cities full of innocent people. That's indiscriminate; I don't do that! And I've lost my taste for it. Completely. That's why I wanted to come back, to see you--"

"Oh, so I'm part of your romantic new beginning, is that it?" Jim snarled, and Blair ducked his head, ashamed. "How come you never learned that it was wrong? That there are certain things you just do not do, not in a civilized society?"

"Which civilizations are we talking about?" Blair asked, warming to his topic.

"Oh, shut up!"

"I mean, history..."

"Shut up! Everything about you is a lie, Sandburg. You're a monster." He looked over at the furnace, and Blair winced, wondering if he could still smell Kincaid burning. "I did this because I didn't want to be the one to take you in. But this is it between us. I never want to see you again. I see you, I'll arrest you, understand me?"

And with that, he stormed out and left Blair alone, staring after him and grieving for what he'd lost.

***

Blair drove back to the hotel, watching the first streaks of dawn through the windshield. He felt like shit. All he wanted to do was get this job done and get out of here. He walked up to his hotel room, ignoring the ubiquitous Feds in the car outside, waiting to take him down, and pulled the file out from the heating vent. "Okay, friend, let's see what you've been up to." He spilled the contents out on the bed.

And stared at Steven Ellison's face.

"Dumb fucking luck!"

***

Something was bothering Jack Kelso. Something had been bothering him for this whole, long assignment. "Brackett?"

"Yeah?"

"How _did_ you get this tip that Sandburg was going to be the shooter? I mean, it's one thing to protect a Federal witness against whoever makes a play -- we've done that before -- but how did you know this particular international assassin was flying into town for the job?"

***

Despite everything, Steven had insisted on going for his usual morning jog. "I know this'll all be over in a few hours, Bro, but I'm going stir crazy here in the loft with those patrol cars downstairs 24-7. I need some air."

So, of course, Jim had gone with him, really not wanting to lash out at his brother with all the fury that should be reserved for Sandburg. It hurt, it physically hurt, to feel some hope that maybe it had all been a huge mistake, maybe Blair had loved him as deeply as Jim had loved Blair, only to have the rug yanked out from under him. Blair was a cold-blooded killer. Blair couldn't love anyone.

Suddenly, he noticed the glint of a gun barrel from the window of a parked car, but before he could react, Blair's car swerved into their path and screeched to a halt. "Get in! Keep down!" Blair yelled, as the first spray of bullets hit the asphalt.

Both Ellisons dashed for the safety of the car and Blair peeled out of there, keeping an eye on the car closing on them in the rear-view mirror.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jim demanded.

"I was hired to kill Steven; it's cheaper for them to kill him than to pay off the wrongful death suits from the collapse of the building. But I'm not going to do it."

"This is insane! I just reported shoddy building materials; you want to kill me over that?" Steven yelled in disbelief.

"It's not me! Why does everybody think it's personal?" Blair slammed on the brakes outside Jim's building. "We need to get some cover."

"Upstairs," Jim agreed. He yanked out his cell phone as they made a dash for the door. "I'm calling for backup."

"Shit! No! You'll just get them killed! Let me deal with this," Blair yelled.

That was the last thing Jim was going to do. He made the call and hustled his brother upstairs, just avoiding the spray of bullets that peppered the stairwell. They ducked into the apartment, scanning the furniture for something, anything, they could use for cover. Blair pulled out a couple of Desert Eagles that completely dwarfed his hands, while Jim pulled out his piece and his backup.

"You should know," Blair explained urgently, handing Jim a couple of extra clips, "It was never that I didn't love you. I was sitting there alone on prom night in that goddamn rented tuxedo and Cliff was standing there looking at me like he knew whatever I did that night, I'd be coming home to him. And suddenly all the meditation in the world didn't seem like enough to process that, and for the first time I really, overwhelmingly wanted to kill somebody. So I figured since I loved you so much, it'd be a good idea if I didn't see you anymore."

They could hear the footsteps on the stairs getting louder by the second. Jim gripped Steven's collar to make sure he stayed down, behind the couch, but his attention was only on Blair.

"So I was in the Gulf last year, I was doing this thing -- anyway, I came up over this dune and I saw the ocean ... and it was on fire. The whole thing, on fire, and it was beautiful. So I just sat there and watched it, and that's when I realized there might be a meaning to life, you know, like an organic power that connects all living things, God, Shiva, I dunno."

Loud bangs signaled bullets shooting out the lock, and Blair turned to Jim with a desperation that belied the confidence with which he held his weapons. "Look, I know there's a lot of stuff I'd have to overcome for you to want to be with me; I wasn't raised in a loving environment -- I mean, that's a reason, that doesn't excuse it -- my soul was empty, and it's my responsibility to fill it. I'm just asking you to give me a chance."

They ducked behind the couches as the door was kicked open by someone yelling the bizarre war-cry of "Federal agents!"

Jim blinked in shock and pounced to stop Blair before he could return fire. "Well, we're protecting a Federal witness, so stand down!" Jim yelled, trying to salvage the situation.

One of the Feds shot at him anyway; the bullet burst through the couch inches from Jim's head. "Brackett, what the hell are you doing?" the other Fed demanded.

"The job I was paid for," said the first Fed, shooting his partner.

Jim looked at Blair and they both nodded at the same time. Then they both stood up, guns blazing, and took out the shooter.

Jim dashed over to the more reasonable wounded Fed while Blair kicked the weapon away from the partner, Brackett. "Don't move, I was a medic," said Jim as he put pressure on the wound.

"I know," said the Fed. "I read your file." He looked over at his partner. "I'm sorry for what happened here; Brackett's always been a bit of a wild card. It looks like the construction company paid him to take out your brother, and he decided to double dip and get the credit for taking Sandburg out as well."

In the distance, Jim could hear the wail of police sirens. "They're coming," he assured the wounded man. "You're going to be okay."

"Thank you. The name's Kelso. Jack Kelso."

"So what happens now?" Blair asked, eyes darting between Jim, Kelso and the fire escape.

Kelso coughed and winced at the pain that caused. "As far as I'm concerned, the only person in this room who's committed a crime is my partner there on the floor, and I'll testify to that." He looked up at Jim. "You keep that boy out of trouble," he said. "He needs help with that."

"All he can get," Jim agreed, shaking his head in bemusement. "I'll take care of him." He smiled at Blair as the cops swarmed in and took over the scene. And slowly, with genuine warmth and growing hope, Blair smiled back.

End.


End file.
